Goodby. I had to go.—DAWN.She wrote hurriedly, feeling that she had but a brief respite for her flight. Then, casting down the pen, she went to one of the windows in the room and looked out. There was another balcony here, and she stepped out. It was dark, but the candle-light from the dining-room showed a terrace below. It did not look to be a great distance.For an ordinary runaway bride, this balcony would have been impossible as a mode of egress; but Dawn and her schoolmates had practised all sorts of gymnastics from the windows and roof of the old barn, and even on the gables of the house itself. She knew how to drop like a cat from a considerable distance. She could swing from the great high limb of the old cherry tree that overlooked the Hudson, longer than any of the other girls, and then drop gracefully in their midst, without ruffling her composure in the least.But to perform such a feat attired in her first long dress of rustling silk, with a bonnet tied under her chin, and a bundle and hand-bag to look after—to say nothing of doing it in an unknown and almost entirely dark place—was another thing.Dawn glanced back into the room, but could think of no other way. It wouldn't be pleasant to fall and break her leg at the outset, but she fancied she heard steps coming up the stairs, and to hesitate might bring discovery.She leaned quickly over the railing of the balcony and dropped her bundle down to the terrace. It fell with a hushed thud among the tall grass, and did not sound as if the distance were great.Twisting the cords of her hand-bag twice about her wrist, she swung her feet over the railing and stood on the outer edge of the balcony, holding the rail lightly, and shaking out her skirt so that it would not impede her progress. Then she cautiously crept down, holding to the ironwork of the railing, and then to the floor of the balcony, and hung for a moment to get her breath and be sure of herself before she let go. Then, closing her eyes, she dropped to the terrace like a thistledown, in spite of the voluminous skirts.She paused an instant to pick up her bundle and make sure her hand-bag was safe, then, gathering her skirt and holding it close with one hand, that her feet might be freer, she sped down the terrace and away into the unknown darkness.CHAPTER XVIIt was Charles who had come up the stairs. He had grown impatient of the delay, and come in search of his wife. He paused before his mother's door and listened to hear the pleasant voices of the two who were most dear to him. He had pictured them getting acquainted with each other, and he meant to walk in and say that the time was up and he must not be kept out any longer. He listened, but he heard nothing. He waited a moment longer, but still the silence. What could it mean?He tapped gently at the door, and called, "Mother, may I come in?" His mother gave a cold assent. She had not yet recovered from the shock she had received."Why, where is Dawn?" he asked, pausing on the threshold and looking about the room, as if expecting to find her in hiding, just to tease him, perhaps."If you wish to come in, please have the goodness to close the door after you, Charles," said his mother severely. "You are in danger of forgetting everybody else in your sudden and extraordinary infatuation."The joyous spirit of the young man came down to earth with a thud, and he closed the door and stood looking at his mother blankly, as if to try to fathom the look in her face."Your wife left me some minutes ago," his mother answered the question which his eyes repeated. She spoke haughtily, as if the offence had been partly his. "She did not seem to enjoy my company.""Mother!" said Charles, aghast at his mother's tone even more than at her words."Oh, yes, 'Mother'!" she repeated, angered anew at the reproach in his tone. "I suppose it will be that from now on. She left the room declaring her intention of also leaving my house. I suppose by this time she has seen the impossibility of that, but you will find you have married no angel, I can tell you. Whatever possessed you, I cannot understand. Such a little spitfire! You should have seen her great eyes flash.""Mother, what had you been saying to her?" Charles tried to speak gently. He saw that here was something that needed careful handling. He blamed himself inwardly that he had not had more forethought than to prevent a meeting between the two while his mother was still wrought up over his brother Harrington."What hadIbeen saying toher? Indeed, Charles, you forget yourself! You would better ask what hadshebeen saying tome." In her indignation, Madam Winthrop rose on one elbow and faced her son. "I had been most kind and patient and forgiving. I had made up my mind for your sake to put everything by, and I sent for her to tell her so. I told her I would forgive her all she had done to spoil your brother's life and yours——""Mother! You never told her that!"Charles towered above the little woman in the bed, every inch of his manhood roused in honest indignation."I certainly did," said the mother, her own anger rising anew. "I explained the whole matter to her, and told her I would forgive her entirely. And then just because I suggested some things she might do to help you who are so young and inexperienced, and who had so generously given up all your own ambitions just to save her from a few hours' mortification, she got very angry. She turned perfectly white, and her eyes looked like two devils. You wouldn't have known your pretty little angel if you had seen her. I will admit, of course, that she is pretty, but 'handsome is that handsome does' is a very true adage. You will find it out yet. She was most insulting—told me that I was lying, or words to that effect—and then she got off the most extraordinary yarn about not knowing she had married you. I told her she must know I couldn't believe such a story as that, and, now that I think it over, I don't see how she can be quite right in her mind. Perhaps Harrington had suspected as much and took this way of getting out of a most unfortunate union, and you were so blind that you just jumped in head-foremost, without ever waiting to make an inquiry——""Mother, stop!" Charles's face was white, and his voice was trembling with suppressed horror. "Remember you are talking about my wife!""Yes, your wife!" exclaimed his mother, beginning to cry. "That's the way it goes. A child forgets all his mother has ever done, the minute he sees a pretty, silly face."Then she sat up with sudden resolution."Well,takeyour wife and goout of my house, then, if you and she are going to combine against me, and dictate to me how I shall talk!"Then with a moan she threw herself back upon her pillows and lost consciousness again.Charles stood looking down miserably at her for an instant, his mind in such a whirl of emotions that he scarcely knew which was strongest. Then, with a remembrance of Dawn, he turned, half-distracted, and pulled the bell-cord that hung by the head of his mother's bed. These fainting spells were frequent and not alarming, he knew. Stepping to the head of the stairs, he called:"Betty, tell Aunt Martha to come to Mother at once. She has fainted again."He waited only to hear Aunt Martha's quick, excited step upon the stair, and then he went to find Dawn.Opening the door of the sitting-room, it startled him to feel the emptiness that pervaded the place. He had expected to find Dawn weeping in the big chair, or perhaps huddled upon the bed. That would have been Betty's way. He had often acted as comforter to Betty during her childish woes. Even in his anger and trouble, he was thrilling at the thought of how he would comfort Dawn, his own little girl. He was the only one in all the world now to whom she had a right to look for comfort.He strode through the rooms hurriedly, looking in every possible place for her, and unwilling to accept the conclusion his mind had instantly jumped to, that she was not there at all.He even pushed aside the curtains and stepped out upon first the front balcony and then the side one, thinking that she had taken refuge there from intrusion by Betty or the other girls. But there was no sign of her recent step, and in the darkness the tall grass down below on the terrace told no tales of a little crushed place where her bundle had fallen and where her feet had rested lightly when she dropped. Next morning, before any one would think to look, the grass would be standing tall as ever, and they would never know how she went.Stepping back into the room again, Charles at once saw the writing on the sheet of paper lying on the desk. When he had read it, he caught it hastily in his hand as if it could give him some clue to her whereabouts, and started down the stairs and out of the front door to find her. He knew only one thing then, and that was that he must find her and bring her back before any one else discovered her flight. She could not be far away yet. Charles hurried out into the darkness. The family were attending to the mother, who had recovered consciousness. He could hear her moaning, and a sudden bitterness came over his soul, that her blindness and selfishness should make them all so much trouble. He had never thought of her in any but a gentle, loving way before, and it shocked his spirit to have to think differently now; but his indignation at her treatment of his young and blameless wife was roused beyond his present control.He searched the grounds and garden carefully, going over every possible hiding-place twice. As he did so, he reflected that she could not have known where to go to hide, and he felt sure he would find her in a minute or two. The minutes grew into thirty, and he had found no trace of her. He went down the street quite a distance in one direction, only to be sure she would have chosen the other, and to hurry back. An hour passed with no trace of her, and then he began systematically to go over the grounds again, calling her name softly; but a screech owl mocked him, and the night wind only echoed back his voice emptily.Once he drew near the house and under the balcony where Dawn had escaped. He heard his sister calling him, "Charles, Charles! Mother wants you!" and his heart grew bitter. Then Betty's head came out of the window, and she called again:"Charles, where are you and Dawn? Mother has been moaning and crying for half an hour. She wants you, and nothing else will stop her but the sight of you."Then, out of the darkness, Charles answered his sister, and the tone of his voice frightened her:"Betty, I cannot come. There is something more important than even Mother just now. I'm sorry for Mother, but I'm afraid it's all her fault. She has been saying things to Dawn, and Dawn has gone!""Gone!" Betty's horrified voice seemed like a fresh recognition of the awful truth that his young wife was beyond his easy reach, and a dreadful foreboding entered his soul."Oh, Charles!" Betty gasped. "But she can't be gone. Her things are here, aren't they? Wait—I'll look."Betty disappeared, and in a moment more her white, scared face reappeared on the balcony, and she was holding a candle high above her head."No, they are not there. I've even looked in the closet, thinking she might have hung them up. Her bonnet and mantle were on the bed before supper, but they are gone from the room. I found her gloves, though—one on the bed, and one on the floor. Here they are." She tossed them to him as if they were an important clue, and Charles caught at them as if they were something most precious."What shall we do?" she asked. "Hadn't I better call Father? We ought to find her at once, poor little thing! She'll be frightened out in the night all alone. How could Mother! But then she was so upset with Harrington, I don't believe she understood things fully, do you?"But Charles had no time to listen to Betty's sympathetic chatter. His heart was wrung with the thought of the girl he loved out in the night alone, afraid perhaps of the unknown perils about her. He must hurry to her aid."Yes, tell Father to come to the front door, quick! There's no time to lose. And, Betty, don't rouse the neighbors. Let's keep this quiet.""Of course," said his little sister. "How fortunate they don't know yet that it was you who was married." Then Betty flew to call her father, telling him excitedly all the way to the front door what had happened."Poor child! Poor child!" said the father tenderly, as he listened to the tale. "And poor Mother, too; she just didn't understand."Charles made no response. He did not feel like pitying his mother yet."What do you think I had better do, Father?" he asked. "I've gone everywhere about the place; and down the road a good way in each direction.""She will have started home, I suppose—it is a girl's natural refuge," said the old man thoughtfully. "There's only one road if you don't take the train. She wouldn't likely go all that way around.""But, Father, she doesn't know the way. It was all quite new to her.""Oh, that's easy. She will ask, and of course anybody will direct her. She's probably asked somebody quite near the house here. If you only knew whom, you could easily trace her, but, as you say, it's best not to say anything about it, for it would get out to the neighbors. We'll soon trace her. There are only two ways by which she could reach the main stage-road. You go down to the stable and saddle the two sorrel mares. The blacks are tired with the long drive to-day, so you'd better take the sorrels. The men are all gone to bed by this time, so you'll have to do it yourself. You take one horse and go the road by the sawmill, and I'll take the other and go around by Applebee's farm, and then if she should have taken it into her head to go back by the way you came, I couldn't miss her, for she couldn't have gone further than that by this time. Had she any money with her?""I don't know," answered Charles miserably."Cheer up, lad, we'll find her inside of two hours, never fear. Hurry up, and I'll be with you in half a minute."Five minutes later, the two horses and their riders parted company at the cross corners, and started on the search.CHAPTER XVIIDawn fled through the dark grass, straight from the house, not knowing or thinking where she was going, only to get away. In a moment she reached a high hedge of dense growth, and, not daring more than to glance toward the house, she crept swiftly along toward the street. A few rods from the sidewalk she found a small opening and slipped through into another great yard. Keeping close to the hedge, she soon reached the front, and slid out at the gate like a wraith, wondering what she would do if some one in the neighbor's house should accost her. But no one was near. She could hear footsteps coming, and gay voices, so she turned and hurried the other way, though it carried her past the house she had just left. It would not do, she thought, to meet any one just yet.It was this little circumstance that determined the direction of her flight, and carried her away from the road her kindly pursuers expected her to take.She presently reached a lane and turned into it. It happened to be a private lane leading to a farm-house set far back from the street, and as she approached the house the deep bay of hounds heralded her coming. Her heart stood still with fright, for she had read much about the horror of being pursued by bloodhounds. In those days there was much talk of the pursuit of escaped slaves, and the girl's imagination suddenly saw herself surrounded by a great pack of hounds sent to bring her back. She paused and crouched beside the fence. Presently she heard a man's voice not far away, and saw a speck of light moving and bobbing here and there near the dark outline of the house. Then her senses came back. This was not a dog sent after her, but a man, who had heard her, an intruder, near the house. Perhaps he would come and search her out. She must get over that fence as fast as possible.The silk skirts rustled horribly, and cold chills of apprehension crept down Dawn's back, as she found how much harder it was to climb a fence encumbered by long skirts and a bundle, than when dressed as a care-free school-girl. That gave her an idea. She ought to get off that silk dress as soon as possible, for its noise would attract attention.Another howl of the dog startled her just as she cleared the fence, so she began to run. Fortunately, the house was between her and the town, and she had not to turn back upon her way. She discovered by the humps and hillocks that she was in a meadow, and she struck out as far away from the house as possible, though the way was rough, and several times she fell. But the dog's howling was more distant now, and she concluded he had been chained. Ahead of her, she could see a dark line of trees, and she hurried toward them. At least, she could pause there a minute and arrange her clothing.She crept within the edge of the woods, and dared not look around, so easily her imagination could people it with evil spirits. She was naturally of a courageous nature, and at school had always been ready to dare anything just for fun, but it was a different matter to be running away into the great night world of a place you had never seen.With trembling fingers, she unfastened her bundle, being careful to stick the pins on the corner of her handkerchief in her hand-bag, where she could find them in the dark. It was a work of time and care to extricate the little gray frock from the bundle and be sure to lose nothing in the darkness. She unrolled it cautiously, gathering the other things within the largest garment she had brought, and then slipped the dress out from underneath, first taking the precaution to pin the smaller bundle together. Then she took off her mantle, slipped out of her silk frock and into the gray one, all the time nervously staring into the darkness of the fields through which she had just come. What if some one should catch her now?The blood pounded through her heart, and poured up into her face, as though it were on a mad race to strangle her. Her hair was wet with perspiration and clinging to her forehead, yet she felt a chill. It seemed as if her fingers were growing wooden and clumsy as she turned the silk frock inside out and folded it carefully, pinning it over the other bundle, so that it would show only a gray cotton lining. The silk mantle she put on again, and, feeling carefully about to see that she had left nothing behind, she turned to face the blackness of the woods.It was only a maple sugar grove on the edge of a prosperous farm, but it looked inky black, and might have been filled with all sorts of wild animals, for aught she knew. Yet she pressed on. She felt as if the woods were a friend, at least. She had been used to walking among the trees and telling her troubles there to the birds and breezes, and now it seemed a natural refuge, in spite of its blackness. If only it were the old woods she knew at the school, she would not be afraid at all. But fear henceforth must have no part in her life. She had herself to look out for, and she would never, never go again where any one could talk to her as that dreadful woman had talked. She shuddered as she remembered the cold, cultured voice, and the scorn that had pierced her soul with a shame that she knew was unjust. Her rising anger helped her to go on and put down any timidity that she might have felt, and presently, through feeling from tree to tree, she came out to the other side of the maple grove. Far away to the east she could see a pale moon rising. She started toward it, keeping close to the maple grove, as if it were a friend. The way led over two or three more meadows, and now in her little gray frock she found it much easier to climb the fences.At last she came to a straight, white road in the country, with the slender moon hanging low over it. With relief, she climbed the intervening fence and took her way along the beaten path. Her light prunella slippers had found it hard travelling in the meadows.The day had been a long one, and filled with excitement, beginning with fear and trouble, and preceded by a sleepless night. Dawn was very weary now that she felt herself safe from the terror that possessed her, yet she must walk all night, for it would not be safe to lie down, she knew. She had heard of wild beasts lurking on the edges of towns, and a wolf or a bear would not be a pleasant companion.On she went through the sweet summer night, slackening not her pace, even though there was now no longer need for haste. It seemed to her tired spirit that she must go on and on thus, throughout ages, always alone and misunderstood and pursued. The thought of her husband and their beautiful day together seemed like some tantalizing dream, that hovered on her memory and sickened her with its impossibility. Such joy as his love offered her was too great for her ever to have hoped to attain. Yet in her secret soul she knew she was glad to have had it, even if only to have it snatched from her.As she thought over her own hasty action in leaving her husband's home forever, she could not feel she had done wrong. Never, never could she have lived with others taunting her that she had been married out of pity—for that was what his mother's words had meant. Charles had not married her for love, but for pity, because, for some unexplained reason, Harrington had chosen to desert her at the last minute. Her exhausted spirit did not care to know the reason. She could but be thankful that he had. Anything, anything was better than to have been married to him.All at once a wild fear possessed her that perhaps by leaving the refuge of his brother's home she had again put herself in danger of Harrington. Perhaps he would find her out, follow her, and compel her to come with him.As the night went on, all sorts of curious fancies took possession of her excited brain, until she started at her own shadow, and thought some one was following her when all was still in the empty road behind.Once or twice she sat down by the roadside to rest, but the awful desire for sleep which crept over her frightened her, and she staggered to her feet again.The road wound into a lonesome wood of tall forest trees, so high that the moon's faint glimmer served only to make the path look blacker. But now she was too dead with weariness to have any fear, and she walked on and on into the blackness of the forest, with no care save to keep going. At last, under a group of pines that huddled together as if they were of one family, she stumbled over a great root that obtruded among the slippery pine needles and fell headlong. She lay still for a moment, dazed, and then the sense of relief and exhaustion became so great that, without a thought of wild beasts, she drew her bundle up under her head and continued to lie still on the soft, sweet bed of needles.The great pines bent their feathery heads over her, and the wind crept into the branches and softly sang a lullaby over the lonely little pilgrim. Regardless of dangers that might be stalking about her, she slept.Quite early in the morning, before the first faint streaks of day had penetrated the cool retreat where Dawn lay asleep, there came a soft murmur of gentle music from the trees all about; and soon a sleepy twitter brightened and grew into a chorus of melody, bird answering to bird from tree to tree. Up and down and around, in and out and over, the threads of song spun themselves into a lovely golden web of harmony that seemed to shut the vaulted forest in loftily from all the world, and in the midst of it all Dawn awoke.It was quite gradual, her return to consciousness, as if the atmosphere of sweetness and melody pervaded her soul, and stirred it from its slumber in spite of itself, bringing new life and a great peace.At first she did not open her eyes, nor think where she was. It was enough that she smelled the pines and felt the soft lap of nature where she lay. It seemed still, very still and restful; cool and sweet and dark. That she knew with her eyes closed. Up above, where the birds sang, she seemed to feel a golden light coming, coming, and knew that it would soon grow into morning. But now she might just allow herself this little time to lie still and listen and wait. There came to her consciousness a thrill of freedom that in her fright and hurry the night before she had not realized. For months now she had been half-planning to run away from the things that were saddening her life, and now she had done it. She was free! Free to order her small life for herself.Down deep in her heart tugged the agony of a great loss, yet it was as of the loss of something she had never really had—only dreamed of briefly. She would not let herself think of Charles now. She wanted to keep his memory as something sweet to take out and look at sometimes when she was lonely, but that could not be until the first bitterness of the shame of her union to him was past. She wanted to forget the scene in his mother's room, her terrible helplessness before the onslaught of the woman's tongue; and just to rest and feel that she was free.Freedom meant getting away from Harrington Winthrop and from her step-mother, and from her father's wrath, or his possible efforts to shape her life. What else it meant, she had yet to learn. She supposed there was some place in the world where she might work for what she needed. The thought of her livelihood did not trouble her. Youth feels equal to its own support always, if it has any spirit at all. Dawn had plenty of spirit, and felt sure she could earn her "board and keep." At present, she was concerned only in getting rested and getting away as far as possible from all the evil things which seemed to have combined to crush her.The light came on, and the morning entered the forest. A saucy little squirrel ran up the tree beneath which the girl lay, and, poised on a high twig, looked down and chattered at her noisily. Down fell a bit of bark upon Dawn's face, and, laughing involuntarily, she sat up and looked about her. The dim aisles of the forest were lit with golden lights now, and the birds, their matins almost finished, were hurrying about with breakfast preparations. A wood-thrush spilled his liquid notes out now and then, like a silver spoon dropped into a glass. A robin called his mate, and a blackbird whistled forth a silken melody. Dawn laughed aloud again at the squirrel, and tossed back the curls that had come loose from the confining comb during her sleep. It was good just to be here and to be free.The squirrel chattered back at her and ran up the tree. Dawn unpinned her bundle and made her simple toilet. There was no brook near, where she could wash her face, but perhaps she would come to one by and by. She combed out her hair as well as she could with only a back-comb, and did it up on her head, for she must have dignity now if she were going out in the world to shift for herself. Then she looked over her small possessions carefully, as a shipwrecked mariner might take account of the wreckage he had saved. She took a kind of fierce joy in the thought that she had brought none of the elaborate garments which her step-mother had prepared for her trousseau. They were all the simple school garments that had been put at the bottom of her trunk.She rolled up the bundle again and pinned it closely, then tied her bonnet on demurely, straightened her frock, and was ready for the day.A soft little pathway of light beckoned her through the woods, and she followed it, her bundle tucked under her cape, her hand-bag with its cords safely twisted about her wrist.The bar of light grew brighter and broader, and led her to another road. Unwittingly, she had come a way that would take her far from the place where she started more directly than any other she could have chosen. The sight of the white road in the dewy morning light gave her new zest for her journey. Her sleep, short though it had been, had rested her wonderfully, and she was eager to get on her way.She climbed the fence and fairly flew down the road. It was very early, and she would be far on her way before people were up and stirring. There were mile-posts on this road, and guide-boards sometimes at cross-roads. That meant that a stage-route came that way. She studied the next guide-board carefully, and decided that she was on the direct route to New York, and that the miles might mean from New York to somewhere else. Not Albany, of course, for she must be far to the west of that. Perhaps she would find out later, as she went on. What if she should go as far as New York? How long would it take her? She could not go all at once, probably; but gradually she might work her way down. Why not? The world was before her. She would watch the mile-posts and see how long it took her to go a mile.Thus dreaming, she flew along like a bird.Here and there she passed a farm, and soon she began to see signs of life about. The men were coming from the barns with brimming pails of milk. As she passed one house somewhat nearer to the road than the rest, she caught the fragrance of frying ham and the aroma of coffee. It made her hungry.A mile further she came to a small white house not far from the roadside. Outside the door a woman who wore a sunbonnet and a big apron sat on a three-legged stool, milking a mild old cow. As Dawn came near, the woman gave the last scientific squeeze, and moved the pail from its position under the cow, then, taking the stool in one hand and the pail in the other, started for the house. The face she showed beneath the deep sunbonnet was a kindly one.Following an impulse, Dawn turned in at the front gate, and the old woman paused to see what she wanted:"Could you let me have a glass of milk?" Dawn's voice was sweet, and she held her purse in her hand. "I would be glad to pay for it. I started early this morning, and am hungry. I'm on my way to the next village."The woman's face lit up at the sight of the girl's smile."A glass of milk?" she said. "'Course I can, but I don't want no pay for it. Just you keep your pennies for a new ribbon to wear under that pretty chin. Set down under the tree there on the bench, an' I'll bring a cup."She put down her pail on a large flat stone, and hurried in, coming out in a moment with a plate of steaming johnny-cake and a flowered cup of delicate china. The woman strained the milk into the cup and stood watching her while she ate the delicious breakfast."Come fur?" asked the hostess, eying the sweet young tramp appreciatively."From beyond Schoharie," she answered quickly, remembering the name on the last cross-road signboard she had passed."H'm! Right smart way fer a little slip of a thing like you to come alone. You must 'a' started 'fore light.""Soon after," laughed Dawn. She felt as if she were playing a game. Then, perceiving that the old lady was curious and would ask questions that she did not care to answer, she launched into a description of the morning sky and the early bird songs. The old woman watched her as if she were drinking in a picture that did her good."Bless me!" she said. "That sounds like poetry verses. How do you think it up?"Then she whisked into the house again and came out with a paper of doughnuts."You might get hungry again 'fore you get to the village, and these doughnuts was extra good this time. Just take 'em an' eat 'em to pass the time as you go. If you feel hungry when you come along back, just stop in. I'll be glad to see your pretty face. It does a body good. Goin' back before sundown?""No," said Dawn; "I may stay some time. I'm not sure. But I thank you very much for your kind invitation, and I know I shall enjoy the doughnuts. I love doughnuts. We used to have them in school once a week in the winter, but only one apiece.""So you've been to boardin'-school!"The old woman would fain have detained her, but Dawn edged away toward the gate, thanking her sweetly all the while, and saying she must hasten, for the sun was getting high. She hurried down the road at last, pretending not to hear the old woman's question about who were her friends in Schoharie, and where she was going to visit in the village.Her cheeks were bright with the excitement of the little episode, and she trilled a gay song as she fled on her unknown way. For the time being, all sadness was put away, and she was gay and free as a lark. Just a happy child.A farmer's boy on a hay-wagon crawling along to the village stopped his whistling and stared at her; and the hired man on top of the load called out to him some remark about her that made the color grow brighter in her cheeks and her heart flutter wildly in her breast. She could not hear what words the man had spoken, but his tone had been contemptuous and familiar. She fairly flew by the team, and fled on down the road.By noon the johnny-cake and milk were dreams of the past, and she was exceedingly hungry, yet she had not come to a place where she cared to ask for dinner. Every farm-house she came to seemed to have plenty of farmhands about, coming in to their dinner, and she dreaded their eyes upon her. So she sat down under a tree by the roadside and ate her fat, sugary doughnuts, rested a few minutes, and plodded on.The afternoon was more wearisome. Her slippers hurt her feet, and she had to stop often to rest. About five o'clock she came to a neat-looking inn by the roadside, where a decent woman sat knitting by the door, and Dawn decided to sacrifice something from her small store of money and stop overnight.The woman eyed her curiously when she asked for a room and supper. Not many pilgrims so young or so beautiful passed her way unattended. Dawn explained that she was on her way to another town, to look for something to do."I suppose you're expecting to teach school," said the woman disapprovingly. "They all do nowadays, when they better be home, helping their mothers make bread and pies.""My mother is dead," said Dawn quietly, "and I must earn my own living now."The woman was silenced, and gave the young traveller a pleasant little whitewashed room, where she slept soundly. But an idea had come to her. A teacher! Of course, she could be a teacher. Had she not led her classes, and always been successful in showing the girls at school how to do their sums? She would enjoy playing the part of Friend Ruth, and putting a class through its paces. It quite interested her to think how she would do it. But how would she get her school? Should she go to New York and try, or begin in a country one first?This thought interested her all through the day, which was Saturday, and kept away the undertone of consciousness of a deep loss. But once, toward evening, she passed a shiny new carryall in which rode a young man and a girl, and a sharp pang shot through her heart as it brought back vividly to her memory the beautiful day which she and Charles had spent together. And then her mind went back to the first time she had seen him, that day when she was standing on the hilltop with, her small audience before her, and had looked up and seen the shining of his eyes. It came to her then that she had a certain right of possession in him, as if that day had given her to him and him to her in a bond that could never be broken, no matter how far they might be separated. Quiet joy settled down upon her with the thought that, whatever might come, whether she ever saw him again or not, she was his wife, and nobody, nobody could ever take the thought of it from her.The sun was setting, and evening bells were ringing in the spire of a little white church, as she came into a small village nestled at the foot of a circle of hills. It reminded her that the next day was the Sabbath.That day had no sweet association for her since her mother's death, but, though she had been only a little child, she could remember walking by her mother's side to church, with her little starched skirts swinging, and her mitted hands folded demurely over her pocket handkerchief, while the bells rang a cheery call to prayer. There had been no bells on the meeting-house to which the scholars of Friend Ruth's school were taken every First Day, and nothing about the service to remind her of the church where she had sat by her mother's side in the high-backed pew and heard the hymns lined out, trying to follow the singing of the congregation with her wee sweet voice; but now the bells harked back over the years and brought an aching memory of her almost forgotten little girlhood. A sudden longing to go to church as she used to do came over her, and she decided to find a place in the village to stay over Sunday and go to service in the little white-spired church. Besides, it was against the law in those days for any one to travel unnecessarily on the Sabbath day. Dawn never thought of doing so, any more than she would have contemplated the possibility of stealing.It chanced that she arrived at the village tavern about the same time as the stage-coach from the opposite direction, and no one noticed that she had not come on the stage, for there were a number of travellers who stopped off here for the Sabbath. Seeing them descending from the coach, she went in haste to the landlady and begged that she might have a tiny room to herself. She was a little frightened at the thought of paying a whole dollar out of her small hoard for the lodging and her meals until after breakfast Monday morning, but she shut her eyes to the thought of it and took the room. It was only a tiny one over a shed that was given her, but everything was clean and sweet, and the supper smells came richly up through the open window to her hungry senses. On the whole, she was quite content when she lay down to rest in her own little room that night and dreamed of church-bells, and weddings, and sweet fields of clover and new-mown hay.CHAPTER XVIIIThe next morning the roosters crowing under her window awakened her, and for the moment she thought she was back in school, with the barn-yard not far away; but other and unfamiliar sounds and odors brought her back to realities, and she remembered she was a lone traveller putting up at an inn.She lay still for some time, thinking over the strangeness of it all, and the tragic happenings of the last few days. The thought of Charles brought tears to her eyes. The dearness and loss of him came over her as it had not had time to do while she was hurrying on her way. But this morning, for the first time, she felt that she was far from every one who knew her, and hidden securely so that she could never be found, and that she might look her life in the face and know what it all meant. It was inevitable that in reviewing her life the first and largest part of all should be Charles and her brief but sweet acquaintance with him. That she was his wife thrilled her with unspeakable joy. The fact that she had deliberately renounced him took away to some extent the sting of the manner in which she had been married.As she thought it all over, she realized that the only real shame in the whole affair was that she had been about to marry Harrington Winthrop when her heart was full of fear and hatred for him. She seemed to see many things in a new light. In fact, the child had become a woman in the space of a few days, and she understood life better, though it was still one vast perplexity.One thing remained of all the past, and that was the memory of the love of Charles. Even the remembrance of her dear mother was dimmed by it. It seemed to be the one eternal fact which stood out clearly, and in the light of which she must hereafter live. That he had been generous and kind enough to marry her for the sake of relieving her from humiliation, as his mother had intimated, only made Dawn love him the more. But because of the generosity of that act, she must never trouble him again. She had renounced him. It was the least she could do for him, under the circumstances, in return for his great kindness. But whatever happened, she must be true to his memory, and be such that he would always be proud of her if he should chance ever to hear of her, though she meant to take care that he did not.If she had been a little older and wiser, if she had understood the ways of the world better, she would not have been so sure that she was taking the most direct way to reward Charles for his kindness to her. But she did not understand, and so was sincere and earnest in her mistaken way of being loyal to him. One thing, however, made her glad. She felt that no matter how far apart they might be during the rest of their lives, they had understood each other, and their souls had met in a deep, sweet joy. As she thought of the moment before supper at his home, when he had held her in that close embrace, and laid his face upon hers and kissed her, the sweetness and pain of it were too much for her, and with a sharp cry she hid her face in her pillow and wept bitterly.It never occurred to her, poor little pilgrim, that he might be grieving just as deeply over her absence and the mystery of her whereabouts as was she for him, or she would have flown to him in spite of all mothers-in-law, and made him glad.The tempest of her grief swept over her like a summer storm, and was gone. At her age she could not grieve long over what had been hers so briefly that it had scarcely become tangible. But as it had been the dearest happening of her life, and the only bright thing in her girlhood, it took the form of a mount of vision from which ever after she was to draw her inspiration for the doing of the monotonous tasks of life.She arose and washed away the marks of the tears, and dressed herself carefully in her green silk for church, arranging her hair demurely on the top of her head, with the curls as little in evidence as possible. She wished to look old and dignified, as befitted a person travelling by herself, and looking for a chance to teach school.The village was a pretty one, and as she walked down the street to the church her heart went out to it. As she sat in the tall pew where the beadle placed her, she glanced shyly around at the people who came in, and wished she might stop here and get something to do. Yet her heart shrank from any attempt to speak to them or beg their help.A lady came in leading a little girl by the hand, a sweet-faced child with a chubby face, and ringlets in clusters on either cheek, held there by her fine white, dunstable straw bonnet, with its moss-rosebuds and face-ruche of soft lace. After they were seated, across the aisle, the little girl leaned over her mother and stared at Dawn, then smiled shyly, and the young wanderer felt that she had one friend in this strange place.A sudden loneliness gripped her heart, and she wished she were a little girl again, sitting by her mother's side. How many, many times she had wished that the last few months! The thought made her heart ache, it was so old a hurt. She felt the smart of tears that wanted to swim out and blind her vision, but she straightened up and tried to look dignified, remembering that she was a woman now—a married woman. She wondered, would it be wrong to pretend, as she used to do at school sometimes? She wanted to pretend that Charles sat by her side, they two going to their first church service together. She decided there would be no harm in that, and moved a little nearer the corner to make room for her dear companion. It gave her a happy sense of not being alone, and she glanced up now and then as if he were there and she were watching him proudly. It was not hard to imagine him. She was good at such things. It thrilled her to think how his arm would be close to hers, his sleeve touching her hand, perhaps, as he held the hymn-book for her to sing with him. And to think that if only her marriage had been like others, she would in all probability have been singing beside him in his home church at this very minute! The thought of it almost brought the tears.There were no hymn-books in the little village church, but the minister lined the hymn out, and Dawn stood up to sing with the rest, her clear voice lifting the tune till people near her turned to look at the sweet face. She tried to think that Charles was singing by her side, but when they came to the stanza:When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.it was almost too much for her, and she had to wink hard to keep back the tears, for it came over her that she could not hope to meet Charles again, but must go on with the being asunder always.The minister had gray hair and a kindly face. He preached about comfort, and Dawn felt as if it were meant for her. As she listened, an idea came to her. She would go to the minister and ask him to help her find a school. Ministers knew about such things.She went to the afternoon service also, and after it was over two or three women shook hands with her, looked curiously, admiringly at her rich silk gown, and asked her if she were a stranger.She smiled and nodded shyly. Then the minister came and shook hands with her, and brought his tired-looking wife to speak to her. She watched them go across the churchyard together, and up the steps of the old parsonage. The minister seemed tired, too, but there was sympathy between the two that seemed to rest them both when they looked at each other and smiled. It touched the girl-wife. Here were two who had walked together, yet who seemed to be agreed, and to be happy in each other's company. She felt instinctively, from the minister's face, that he would not have sent his wife away from his home, no matter what she had done. He would not have thought she had done anything wrong in the first place. It came to Dawn that perhaps it had been her father's quick temper and hasty judgment that had made all the trouble for her mother. She remembered lately an unutterably sad expression about his eyes. Perhaps he was feeling sorry about it, and ashamed. It made the girl have a tenderer feeling for the father she had never really loved. She pitied him that he must live with her step-mother. She had not as yet connected Mrs. Van Rensselaer with her own present predicament. Her main sensations were dislike for her father's second wife, and thankfulness that she was out of her jurisdiction. It remained for deeper reflection to tell Dawn just how much her step-mother was to blame for her having been married to one man, supposing all the time that he was another.The next morning quite early, Dawn attired herself in her little gray frock and tied her bonnet neatly, then, leaving her bundle in her room, ready to move in case her mission failed, she presented herself at the parsonage and asked to see the minister.She was shown into the study, where the good man sat in a big hair-cloth chair by the open window, reading.He received her kindly and gave her a chair."I've come to gee whether you can help me to find something to do," she began shyly. "My mother is dead, and I must earn my own living. I have relatives to whom I should be a burden, and I have come away so that they will not be troubled with me."She had thought out during the night watches just what to say.The minister looked at her keenly and kindly through his spectacles. Long experience had made him a good judge of character. He saw nothing but guileless innocence in the sweet young face."What is your name?" he asked, by way of preliminary.Dawn's face flushed slightly, but she had anticipated this question."I should like to be called Mary Montgomery," she said shyly. "It is not my real name, but my relatives might be mortified if they should hear of my being at work. They are very proud, and would not like to have their name mixed up with one who works. Besides, if they should hear of my being here this way, they would think that they must come after me and take care of me, and I don't wish them to. I want to be independent."She gave the minister a most engaging smile, which put a well rounded period to her plea."How do I know that you have not run away?" he asked her, half smiling himself."Oh, I have run away," answered Dawn frankly. "I knew they would try to keep me if I told them, but I left word I had gone, and they will not worry. They do not love me. They wanted me to stay only because they felt it a duty to care for me, and they will be greatly relieved to be rid of me without any trouble. That is why I came. You see, they told me as much, and it was very uncomfortable. You would not want to stay where you knew you were in the way, would you?"Dawn looked into the old minister's eyes with her own wide, lovely ones, and won his heart. She reminded him of his little girl who had died."I suppose not," he said in a half amused tone. "But don't you think it would be better for you to confide in me? Just tell me your real name, and where you come from, and all about it, and then I can help you better. I shall be able to recommend you, you know.""Thank you, no," said Dawn decidedly, getting up as if that ended the matter. "If I told you that, and then you were asked if I were here, you would have to say yes. Then, too, if you knew, you might think it was your duty to let my friends know where I am. Now you have no responsibility about it at all, don't you see? But I don't want to make you any trouble. If you don't know of some work I might do here, I will go elsewhere. I can surely find something to do without telling my real name. I know I am doing right. You were so kind when you spoke to me yesterday, that I thought I would come and ask though I had intended going on this morning.""Wait," said the minister. "Sit down. What do you want to do? What kind of work are you fitted for?""I have been educated at a good school," said Dawn, sitting down and putting on a quaint little business-like air which made the minister smile."Did you ever teach school?" There was much hesitation in the minister's voice. He was not altogether sure he was doing right to suggest the idea, she was such a child in looks."No, but I could," replied Dawn confidently. "And, oh, I should like it! It is just what I want. I love to show people how to do things, and make them learn correctly. I used to help the girls at school." There was great eagerness in her face. The minister thought how lovely she was, and again that fleeting likeness to his dead child gripped his heart."You are very young," he mused, watching the changing expression on her face, and thinking that his child would have been about this girl's age."I am almost seventeen," said Dawn, drawing herself up gravely."Our village schoolmaster left very suddenly last week, to go to his invalid mother's bedside, and it may be some months before his return. Indeed, it is possible that he will not come back at all. He intimated as much before he left. We have not had opportunity as yet to find another teacher, and the school has been dismissed for a few days until we can look about for a substitute.""Oh, will you let me try?" Dawn sat on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped, her lovely eyes pleading eagerly."But some of the scholars are larger than you are.""That will not matter," responded Dawn, undaunted. "I could always make the girls at school do what I wanted.""There are some big boys who might make you a good deal of trouble," went on the minister. "Our school has the name of being a hard one to discipline. We have always had a man at its head.""I am not afraid," said Dawn, fire in her eyes. "I should like to try, if you will let me. You cannot tell whether I can do it unless you let me try.""That is true," agreed the minister gravely. "I suppose there would be no harm in your trying. I could talk with the trustees about it, though the matter has been practically left to me.""Oh, then, please,please, try me! I am sure I can do it," Dawn pleaded, and the look of his dead child's eyes in her face conquered the minister's scruples."Very well, I will try you," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "I will see the trustees and have the notices put up at once. School will open to-morrow morning. But I warn you it will be no easy task. I feel that it will be an extremely doubtful experiment.""Oh, thank you!" cried Dawn, her eyes bright with anticipation. "I am not afraid, and I shall do my best. I am sure I can teach a school.""Poor child!" thought the minister. "Am I doing right to send her into such a trial?"Aloud, he only said:"You will receive sixteen dollars a month, and will board around, Miss Montgomery."Dawn looked up at the new name she had chosen, and saw a twinkle in his eye. She smiled in recognition of his acceptance of it."Where are you stopping?" he asked."I am at the Golden Swan," she answered. "I can stay there a little while yet. I have a little money, though it will not last many weeks."She wrinkled her sweet face into dimples and smiled at him, as if having no money were a matter of little consequence.He admired her courage, and, bending upon her a look of benediction, said kindly:"We will arrange the matter of boarding as soon as possible. I will see Mrs. Gillette, the wife of the proprietor of the Golden Swan. They have a daughter in school, and possibly their two boys will attend also, though sometimes at this time of year they are both out working on the farm. But the Gillettes always take the teacher for their share of the term."Dawn went smiling down the parsonage path. It seemed to her the larkspurs had grown bluer and the verbenas pinker since she came up a few minutes before, and her feet fairly danced down the street, she was so happy over her good fortune. It was like a beautiful story, the way it was turning out. She had no apprehensions about her ability to handle the village school, for she had had no experience of what bad boys could be; so there was nothing to cloud her bright day, save now and then a brief pang of longing for Charles. For the most part, her mind was too much filled with anticipation of the morrow to have room for thoughts of the past. She went to the Golden Swan, and told Mrs. Gillette that she was to remain there for a few days at least, then she found the village store and made a few simple purchases, among them needles, thread, and a thimble. Then she chose material for an apron, and hurried home to make it. The school-teachers she had known had always worn aprons. They were a badge of office. But the apron she made was not like Friend Ruth's. It was small and coquettish, and edged with a tiny ruffle.Dawn knew how to sew beautifully, for that had been one of the accomplishments Friend Ruth required of all her pupils. With a pair of borrowed scissors, the young girl fashioned the garment, and cut the tiny ruffles, rolling the hems as she had been taught to do, and scratching the gathers scientifically. By night she had a dainty little apron ready to wear to school. It was a frivolous bit of a thing, but it filled her with delight, for it was such an apron as she had always desired, but had not been allowed to have while in school. Simplicity held sway where Friend Ruth ruled.At the supper table it was whispered around that a new school-teacher had come to town. There were notices up at the corners and all the cross-roads. School was to "take up" on the morrow. Some of the people at the table looked suspiciously at the pretty young stranger sitting demurely by herself at the end of the table, and wondered if she were the new teacher, but others said no, she was entirely too young.After supper Dawn went to the big book wherein were registered the names of the guests, and wrote down "Mary Montgomery" in a clear, round hand. Mr. Gillette watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye. As he saw her about to turn away, he said gruffly:"Put down the place. We like to know where our folks belongs.""Oh!" said Dawn, a pink flush stealing into her cheek. What should she put? Then, quick as a flash, she thought, "I have adopted a name—why should I not adopt a home, too? I am on my way to New York. If I do not remain here, I shall go there—if I can get there. I will choose New York for my home. It is a large place, and no one will expect me to know every one there. Besides, it will also stand for New York State."So, without another word, she wrote "New York" beside her name. She might as well have written "Heaven," for it stood to her as a kind of final destination, far away and pleasant, the only place now that she could look to for a real home."You ain't the new schoolmarm, be you?" inquired the worthy proprietor of the Golden Swan cautiously."Why, yes," said Dawn, happily conscious, and laughing merrily to think of the word "schoolmarm" as applied to her who but yesterday was a scholar."Now, you don't say!" said the proprietor, settling back in his chair and putting his feet on the office table in front of him, while he shoved up his spectacles to get a better view of her. "Some said as how you was, but I couldn't think it. You look so young.""Oh, I'm quite old," said Dawn anxiously. "I'm far older than I look." And she hurried away, lest she should be questioned further.It was soon noised abroad that the new teacher was stopping at the Golden Swan, and many a villager dropped in to have a look at her. But she was nowhere in evidence. Up in the little whitewashed chamber, with her candle lighted and the shades drawn, she was standing before her tiny looking-glass, arrayed in her new, beruffled apron, and trying to look grave and dignified, and as much like Friend Ruth as possible.If Charles could have seen her all absorbed, his heart would have been sadly cast down to see how little she seemed to miss him. But later, when she had put out her candle and crept into her bed, she sobbed a long time into her pillow with loneliness and excitement.
Goodby. I had to go.—DAWN.
She wrote hurriedly, feeling that she had but a brief respite for her flight. Then, casting down the pen, she went to one of the windows in the room and looked out. There was another balcony here, and she stepped out. It was dark, but the candle-light from the dining-room showed a terrace below. It did not look to be a great distance.
For an ordinary runaway bride, this balcony would have been impossible as a mode of egress; but Dawn and her schoolmates had practised all sorts of gymnastics from the windows and roof of the old barn, and even on the gables of the house itself. She knew how to drop like a cat from a considerable distance. She could swing from the great high limb of the old cherry tree that overlooked the Hudson, longer than any of the other girls, and then drop gracefully in their midst, without ruffling her composure in the least.
But to perform such a feat attired in her first long dress of rustling silk, with a bonnet tied under her chin, and a bundle and hand-bag to look after—to say nothing of doing it in an unknown and almost entirely dark place—was another thing.
Dawn glanced back into the room, but could think of no other way. It wouldn't be pleasant to fall and break her leg at the outset, but she fancied she heard steps coming up the stairs, and to hesitate might bring discovery.
She leaned quickly over the railing of the balcony and dropped her bundle down to the terrace. It fell with a hushed thud among the tall grass, and did not sound as if the distance were great.
Twisting the cords of her hand-bag twice about her wrist, she swung her feet over the railing and stood on the outer edge of the balcony, holding the rail lightly, and shaking out her skirt so that it would not impede her progress. Then she cautiously crept down, holding to the ironwork of the railing, and then to the floor of the balcony, and hung for a moment to get her breath and be sure of herself before she let go. Then, closing her eyes, she dropped to the terrace like a thistledown, in spite of the voluminous skirts.
She paused an instant to pick up her bundle and make sure her hand-bag was safe, then, gathering her skirt and holding it close with one hand, that her feet might be freer, she sped down the terrace and away into the unknown darkness.
CHAPTER XVI
It was Charles who had come up the stairs. He had grown impatient of the delay, and come in search of his wife. He paused before his mother's door and listened to hear the pleasant voices of the two who were most dear to him. He had pictured them getting acquainted with each other, and he meant to walk in and say that the time was up and he must not be kept out any longer. He listened, but he heard nothing. He waited a moment longer, but still the silence. What could it mean?
He tapped gently at the door, and called, "Mother, may I come in?" His mother gave a cold assent. She had not yet recovered from the shock she had received.
"Why, where is Dawn?" he asked, pausing on the threshold and looking about the room, as if expecting to find her in hiding, just to tease him, perhaps.
"If you wish to come in, please have the goodness to close the door after you, Charles," said his mother severely. "You are in danger of forgetting everybody else in your sudden and extraordinary infatuation."
The joyous spirit of the young man came down to earth with a thud, and he closed the door and stood looking at his mother blankly, as if to try to fathom the look in her face.
"Your wife left me some minutes ago," his mother answered the question which his eyes repeated. She spoke haughtily, as if the offence had been partly his. "She did not seem to enjoy my company."
"Mother!" said Charles, aghast at his mother's tone even more than at her words.
"Oh, yes, 'Mother'!" she repeated, angered anew at the reproach in his tone. "I suppose it will be that from now on. She left the room declaring her intention of also leaving my house. I suppose by this time she has seen the impossibility of that, but you will find you have married no angel, I can tell you. Whatever possessed you, I cannot understand. Such a little spitfire! You should have seen her great eyes flash."
"Mother, what had you been saying to her?" Charles tried to speak gently. He saw that here was something that needed careful handling. He blamed himself inwardly that he had not had more forethought than to prevent a meeting between the two while his mother was still wrought up over his brother Harrington.
"What hadIbeen saying toher? Indeed, Charles, you forget yourself! You would better ask what hadshebeen saying tome." In her indignation, Madam Winthrop rose on one elbow and faced her son. "I had been most kind and patient and forgiving. I had made up my mind for your sake to put everything by, and I sent for her to tell her so. I told her I would forgive her all she had done to spoil your brother's life and yours——"
"Mother! You never told her that!"
Charles towered above the little woman in the bed, every inch of his manhood roused in honest indignation.
"I certainly did," said the mother, her own anger rising anew. "I explained the whole matter to her, and told her I would forgive her entirely. And then just because I suggested some things she might do to help you who are so young and inexperienced, and who had so generously given up all your own ambitions just to save her from a few hours' mortification, she got very angry. She turned perfectly white, and her eyes looked like two devils. You wouldn't have known your pretty little angel if you had seen her. I will admit, of course, that she is pretty, but 'handsome is that handsome does' is a very true adage. You will find it out yet. She was most insulting—told me that I was lying, or words to that effect—and then she got off the most extraordinary yarn about not knowing she had married you. I told her she must know I couldn't believe such a story as that, and, now that I think it over, I don't see how she can be quite right in her mind. Perhaps Harrington had suspected as much and took this way of getting out of a most unfortunate union, and you were so blind that you just jumped in head-foremost, without ever waiting to make an inquiry——"
"Mother, stop!" Charles's face was white, and his voice was trembling with suppressed horror. "Remember you are talking about my wife!"
"Yes, your wife!" exclaimed his mother, beginning to cry. "That's the way it goes. A child forgets all his mother has ever done, the minute he sees a pretty, silly face."
Then she sat up with sudden resolution.
"Well,takeyour wife and goout of my house, then, if you and she are going to combine against me, and dictate to me how I shall talk!"
Then with a moan she threw herself back upon her pillows and lost consciousness again.
Charles stood looking down miserably at her for an instant, his mind in such a whirl of emotions that he scarcely knew which was strongest. Then, with a remembrance of Dawn, he turned, half-distracted, and pulled the bell-cord that hung by the head of his mother's bed. These fainting spells were frequent and not alarming, he knew. Stepping to the head of the stairs, he called:
"Betty, tell Aunt Martha to come to Mother at once. She has fainted again."
He waited only to hear Aunt Martha's quick, excited step upon the stair, and then he went to find Dawn.
Opening the door of the sitting-room, it startled him to feel the emptiness that pervaded the place. He had expected to find Dawn weeping in the big chair, or perhaps huddled upon the bed. That would have been Betty's way. He had often acted as comforter to Betty during her childish woes. Even in his anger and trouble, he was thrilling at the thought of how he would comfort Dawn, his own little girl. He was the only one in all the world now to whom she had a right to look for comfort.
He strode through the rooms hurriedly, looking in every possible place for her, and unwilling to accept the conclusion his mind had instantly jumped to, that she was not there at all.
He even pushed aside the curtains and stepped out upon first the front balcony and then the side one, thinking that she had taken refuge there from intrusion by Betty or the other girls. But there was no sign of her recent step, and in the darkness the tall grass down below on the terrace told no tales of a little crushed place where her bundle had fallen and where her feet had rested lightly when she dropped. Next morning, before any one would think to look, the grass would be standing tall as ever, and they would never know how she went.
Stepping back into the room again, Charles at once saw the writing on the sheet of paper lying on the desk. When he had read it, he caught it hastily in his hand as if it could give him some clue to her whereabouts, and started down the stairs and out of the front door to find her. He knew only one thing then, and that was that he must find her and bring her back before any one else discovered her flight. She could not be far away yet. Charles hurried out into the darkness. The family were attending to the mother, who had recovered consciousness. He could hear her moaning, and a sudden bitterness came over his soul, that her blindness and selfishness should make them all so much trouble. He had never thought of her in any but a gentle, loving way before, and it shocked his spirit to have to think differently now; but his indignation at her treatment of his young and blameless wife was roused beyond his present control.
He searched the grounds and garden carefully, going over every possible hiding-place twice. As he did so, he reflected that she could not have known where to go to hide, and he felt sure he would find her in a minute or two. The minutes grew into thirty, and he had found no trace of her. He went down the street quite a distance in one direction, only to be sure she would have chosen the other, and to hurry back. An hour passed with no trace of her, and then he began systematically to go over the grounds again, calling her name softly; but a screech owl mocked him, and the night wind only echoed back his voice emptily.
Once he drew near the house and under the balcony where Dawn had escaped. He heard his sister calling him, "Charles, Charles! Mother wants you!" and his heart grew bitter. Then Betty's head came out of the window, and she called again:
"Charles, where are you and Dawn? Mother has been moaning and crying for half an hour. She wants you, and nothing else will stop her but the sight of you."
Then, out of the darkness, Charles answered his sister, and the tone of his voice frightened her:
"Betty, I cannot come. There is something more important than even Mother just now. I'm sorry for Mother, but I'm afraid it's all her fault. She has been saying things to Dawn, and Dawn has gone!"
"Gone!" Betty's horrified voice seemed like a fresh recognition of the awful truth that his young wife was beyond his easy reach, and a dreadful foreboding entered his soul.
"Oh, Charles!" Betty gasped. "But she can't be gone. Her things are here, aren't they? Wait—I'll look."
Betty disappeared, and in a moment more her white, scared face reappeared on the balcony, and she was holding a candle high above her head.
"No, they are not there. I've even looked in the closet, thinking she might have hung them up. Her bonnet and mantle were on the bed before supper, but they are gone from the room. I found her gloves, though—one on the bed, and one on the floor. Here they are." She tossed them to him as if they were an important clue, and Charles caught at them as if they were something most precious.
"What shall we do?" she asked. "Hadn't I better call Father? We ought to find her at once, poor little thing! She'll be frightened out in the night all alone. How could Mother! But then she was so upset with Harrington, I don't believe she understood things fully, do you?"
But Charles had no time to listen to Betty's sympathetic chatter. His heart was wrung with the thought of the girl he loved out in the night alone, afraid perhaps of the unknown perils about her. He must hurry to her aid.
"Yes, tell Father to come to the front door, quick! There's no time to lose. And, Betty, don't rouse the neighbors. Let's keep this quiet."
"Of course," said his little sister. "How fortunate they don't know yet that it was you who was married." Then Betty flew to call her father, telling him excitedly all the way to the front door what had happened.
"Poor child! Poor child!" said the father tenderly, as he listened to the tale. "And poor Mother, too; she just didn't understand."
Charles made no response. He did not feel like pitying his mother yet.
"What do you think I had better do, Father?" he asked. "I've gone everywhere about the place; and down the road a good way in each direction."
"She will have started home, I suppose—it is a girl's natural refuge," said the old man thoughtfully. "There's only one road if you don't take the train. She wouldn't likely go all that way around."
"But, Father, she doesn't know the way. It was all quite new to her."
"Oh, that's easy. She will ask, and of course anybody will direct her. She's probably asked somebody quite near the house here. If you only knew whom, you could easily trace her, but, as you say, it's best not to say anything about it, for it would get out to the neighbors. We'll soon trace her. There are only two ways by which she could reach the main stage-road. You go down to the stable and saddle the two sorrel mares. The blacks are tired with the long drive to-day, so you'd better take the sorrels. The men are all gone to bed by this time, so you'll have to do it yourself. You take one horse and go the road by the sawmill, and I'll take the other and go around by Applebee's farm, and then if she should have taken it into her head to go back by the way you came, I couldn't miss her, for she couldn't have gone further than that by this time. Had she any money with her?"
"I don't know," answered Charles miserably.
"Cheer up, lad, we'll find her inside of two hours, never fear. Hurry up, and I'll be with you in half a minute."
Five minutes later, the two horses and their riders parted company at the cross corners, and started on the search.
CHAPTER XVII
Dawn fled through the dark grass, straight from the house, not knowing or thinking where she was going, only to get away. In a moment she reached a high hedge of dense growth, and, not daring more than to glance toward the house, she crept swiftly along toward the street. A few rods from the sidewalk she found a small opening and slipped through into another great yard. Keeping close to the hedge, she soon reached the front, and slid out at the gate like a wraith, wondering what she would do if some one in the neighbor's house should accost her. But no one was near. She could hear footsteps coming, and gay voices, so she turned and hurried the other way, though it carried her past the house she had just left. It would not do, she thought, to meet any one just yet.
It was this little circumstance that determined the direction of her flight, and carried her away from the road her kindly pursuers expected her to take.
She presently reached a lane and turned into it. It happened to be a private lane leading to a farm-house set far back from the street, and as she approached the house the deep bay of hounds heralded her coming. Her heart stood still with fright, for she had read much about the horror of being pursued by bloodhounds. In those days there was much talk of the pursuit of escaped slaves, and the girl's imagination suddenly saw herself surrounded by a great pack of hounds sent to bring her back. She paused and crouched beside the fence. Presently she heard a man's voice not far away, and saw a speck of light moving and bobbing here and there near the dark outline of the house. Then her senses came back. This was not a dog sent after her, but a man, who had heard her, an intruder, near the house. Perhaps he would come and search her out. She must get over that fence as fast as possible.
The silk skirts rustled horribly, and cold chills of apprehension crept down Dawn's back, as she found how much harder it was to climb a fence encumbered by long skirts and a bundle, than when dressed as a care-free school-girl. That gave her an idea. She ought to get off that silk dress as soon as possible, for its noise would attract attention.
Another howl of the dog startled her just as she cleared the fence, so she began to run. Fortunately, the house was between her and the town, and she had not to turn back upon her way. She discovered by the humps and hillocks that she was in a meadow, and she struck out as far away from the house as possible, though the way was rough, and several times she fell. But the dog's howling was more distant now, and she concluded he had been chained. Ahead of her, she could see a dark line of trees, and she hurried toward them. At least, she could pause there a minute and arrange her clothing.
She crept within the edge of the woods, and dared not look around, so easily her imagination could people it with evil spirits. She was naturally of a courageous nature, and at school had always been ready to dare anything just for fun, but it was a different matter to be running away into the great night world of a place you had never seen.
With trembling fingers, she unfastened her bundle, being careful to stick the pins on the corner of her handkerchief in her hand-bag, where she could find them in the dark. It was a work of time and care to extricate the little gray frock from the bundle and be sure to lose nothing in the darkness. She unrolled it cautiously, gathering the other things within the largest garment she had brought, and then slipped the dress out from underneath, first taking the precaution to pin the smaller bundle together. Then she took off her mantle, slipped out of her silk frock and into the gray one, all the time nervously staring into the darkness of the fields through which she had just come. What if some one should catch her now?
The blood pounded through her heart, and poured up into her face, as though it were on a mad race to strangle her. Her hair was wet with perspiration and clinging to her forehead, yet she felt a chill. It seemed as if her fingers were growing wooden and clumsy as she turned the silk frock inside out and folded it carefully, pinning it over the other bundle, so that it would show only a gray cotton lining. The silk mantle she put on again, and, feeling carefully about to see that she had left nothing behind, she turned to face the blackness of the woods.
It was only a maple sugar grove on the edge of a prosperous farm, but it looked inky black, and might have been filled with all sorts of wild animals, for aught she knew. Yet she pressed on. She felt as if the woods were a friend, at least. She had been used to walking among the trees and telling her troubles there to the birds and breezes, and now it seemed a natural refuge, in spite of its blackness. If only it were the old woods she knew at the school, she would not be afraid at all. But fear henceforth must have no part in her life. She had herself to look out for, and she would never, never go again where any one could talk to her as that dreadful woman had talked. She shuddered as she remembered the cold, cultured voice, and the scorn that had pierced her soul with a shame that she knew was unjust. Her rising anger helped her to go on and put down any timidity that she might have felt, and presently, through feeling from tree to tree, she came out to the other side of the maple grove. Far away to the east she could see a pale moon rising. She started toward it, keeping close to the maple grove, as if it were a friend. The way led over two or three more meadows, and now in her little gray frock she found it much easier to climb the fences.
At last she came to a straight, white road in the country, with the slender moon hanging low over it. With relief, she climbed the intervening fence and took her way along the beaten path. Her light prunella slippers had found it hard travelling in the meadows.
The day had been a long one, and filled with excitement, beginning with fear and trouble, and preceded by a sleepless night. Dawn was very weary now that she felt herself safe from the terror that possessed her, yet she must walk all night, for it would not be safe to lie down, she knew. She had heard of wild beasts lurking on the edges of towns, and a wolf or a bear would not be a pleasant companion.
On she went through the sweet summer night, slackening not her pace, even though there was now no longer need for haste. It seemed to her tired spirit that she must go on and on thus, throughout ages, always alone and misunderstood and pursued. The thought of her husband and their beautiful day together seemed like some tantalizing dream, that hovered on her memory and sickened her with its impossibility. Such joy as his love offered her was too great for her ever to have hoped to attain. Yet in her secret soul she knew she was glad to have had it, even if only to have it snatched from her.
As she thought over her own hasty action in leaving her husband's home forever, she could not feel she had done wrong. Never, never could she have lived with others taunting her that she had been married out of pity—for that was what his mother's words had meant. Charles had not married her for love, but for pity, because, for some unexplained reason, Harrington had chosen to desert her at the last minute. Her exhausted spirit did not care to know the reason. She could but be thankful that he had. Anything, anything was better than to have been married to him.
All at once a wild fear possessed her that perhaps by leaving the refuge of his brother's home she had again put herself in danger of Harrington. Perhaps he would find her out, follow her, and compel her to come with him.
As the night went on, all sorts of curious fancies took possession of her excited brain, until she started at her own shadow, and thought some one was following her when all was still in the empty road behind.
Once or twice she sat down by the roadside to rest, but the awful desire for sleep which crept over her frightened her, and she staggered to her feet again.
The road wound into a lonesome wood of tall forest trees, so high that the moon's faint glimmer served only to make the path look blacker. But now she was too dead with weariness to have any fear, and she walked on and on into the blackness of the forest, with no care save to keep going. At last, under a group of pines that huddled together as if they were of one family, she stumbled over a great root that obtruded among the slippery pine needles and fell headlong. She lay still for a moment, dazed, and then the sense of relief and exhaustion became so great that, without a thought of wild beasts, she drew her bundle up under her head and continued to lie still on the soft, sweet bed of needles.
The great pines bent their feathery heads over her, and the wind crept into the branches and softly sang a lullaby over the lonely little pilgrim. Regardless of dangers that might be stalking about her, she slept.
Quite early in the morning, before the first faint streaks of day had penetrated the cool retreat where Dawn lay asleep, there came a soft murmur of gentle music from the trees all about; and soon a sleepy twitter brightened and grew into a chorus of melody, bird answering to bird from tree to tree. Up and down and around, in and out and over, the threads of song spun themselves into a lovely golden web of harmony that seemed to shut the vaulted forest in loftily from all the world, and in the midst of it all Dawn awoke.
It was quite gradual, her return to consciousness, as if the atmosphere of sweetness and melody pervaded her soul, and stirred it from its slumber in spite of itself, bringing new life and a great peace.
At first she did not open her eyes, nor think where she was. It was enough that she smelled the pines and felt the soft lap of nature where she lay. It seemed still, very still and restful; cool and sweet and dark. That she knew with her eyes closed. Up above, where the birds sang, she seemed to feel a golden light coming, coming, and knew that it would soon grow into morning. But now she might just allow herself this little time to lie still and listen and wait. There came to her consciousness a thrill of freedom that in her fright and hurry the night before she had not realized. For months now she had been half-planning to run away from the things that were saddening her life, and now she had done it. She was free! Free to order her small life for herself.
Down deep in her heart tugged the agony of a great loss, yet it was as of the loss of something she had never really had—only dreamed of briefly. She would not let herself think of Charles now. She wanted to keep his memory as something sweet to take out and look at sometimes when she was lonely, but that could not be until the first bitterness of the shame of her union to him was past. She wanted to forget the scene in his mother's room, her terrible helplessness before the onslaught of the woman's tongue; and just to rest and feel that she was free.
Freedom meant getting away from Harrington Winthrop and from her step-mother, and from her father's wrath, or his possible efforts to shape her life. What else it meant, she had yet to learn. She supposed there was some place in the world where she might work for what she needed. The thought of her livelihood did not trouble her. Youth feels equal to its own support always, if it has any spirit at all. Dawn had plenty of spirit, and felt sure she could earn her "board and keep." At present, she was concerned only in getting rested and getting away as far as possible from all the evil things which seemed to have combined to crush her.
The light came on, and the morning entered the forest. A saucy little squirrel ran up the tree beneath which the girl lay, and, poised on a high twig, looked down and chattered at her noisily. Down fell a bit of bark upon Dawn's face, and, laughing involuntarily, she sat up and looked about her. The dim aisles of the forest were lit with golden lights now, and the birds, their matins almost finished, were hurrying about with breakfast preparations. A wood-thrush spilled his liquid notes out now and then, like a silver spoon dropped into a glass. A robin called his mate, and a blackbird whistled forth a silken melody. Dawn laughed aloud again at the squirrel, and tossed back the curls that had come loose from the confining comb during her sleep. It was good just to be here and to be free.
The squirrel chattered back at her and ran up the tree. Dawn unpinned her bundle and made her simple toilet. There was no brook near, where she could wash her face, but perhaps she would come to one by and by. She combed out her hair as well as she could with only a back-comb, and did it up on her head, for she must have dignity now if she were going out in the world to shift for herself. Then she looked over her small possessions carefully, as a shipwrecked mariner might take account of the wreckage he had saved. She took a kind of fierce joy in the thought that she had brought none of the elaborate garments which her step-mother had prepared for her trousseau. They were all the simple school garments that had been put at the bottom of her trunk.
She rolled up the bundle again and pinned it closely, then tied her bonnet on demurely, straightened her frock, and was ready for the day.
A soft little pathway of light beckoned her through the woods, and she followed it, her bundle tucked under her cape, her hand-bag with its cords safely twisted about her wrist.
The bar of light grew brighter and broader, and led her to another road. Unwittingly, she had come a way that would take her far from the place where she started more directly than any other she could have chosen. The sight of the white road in the dewy morning light gave her new zest for her journey. Her sleep, short though it had been, had rested her wonderfully, and she was eager to get on her way.
She climbed the fence and fairly flew down the road. It was very early, and she would be far on her way before people were up and stirring. There were mile-posts on this road, and guide-boards sometimes at cross-roads. That meant that a stage-route came that way. She studied the next guide-board carefully, and decided that she was on the direct route to New York, and that the miles might mean from New York to somewhere else. Not Albany, of course, for she must be far to the west of that. Perhaps she would find out later, as she went on. What if she should go as far as New York? How long would it take her? She could not go all at once, probably; but gradually she might work her way down. Why not? The world was before her. She would watch the mile-posts and see how long it took her to go a mile.
Thus dreaming, she flew along like a bird.
Here and there she passed a farm, and soon she began to see signs of life about. The men were coming from the barns with brimming pails of milk. As she passed one house somewhat nearer to the road than the rest, she caught the fragrance of frying ham and the aroma of coffee. It made her hungry.
A mile further she came to a small white house not far from the roadside. Outside the door a woman who wore a sunbonnet and a big apron sat on a three-legged stool, milking a mild old cow. As Dawn came near, the woman gave the last scientific squeeze, and moved the pail from its position under the cow, then, taking the stool in one hand and the pail in the other, started for the house. The face she showed beneath the deep sunbonnet was a kindly one.
Following an impulse, Dawn turned in at the front gate, and the old woman paused to see what she wanted:
"Could you let me have a glass of milk?" Dawn's voice was sweet, and she held her purse in her hand. "I would be glad to pay for it. I started early this morning, and am hungry. I'm on my way to the next village."
The woman's face lit up at the sight of the girl's smile.
"A glass of milk?" she said. "'Course I can, but I don't want no pay for it. Just you keep your pennies for a new ribbon to wear under that pretty chin. Set down under the tree there on the bench, an' I'll bring a cup."
She put down her pail on a large flat stone, and hurried in, coming out in a moment with a plate of steaming johnny-cake and a flowered cup of delicate china. The woman strained the milk into the cup and stood watching her while she ate the delicious breakfast.
"Come fur?" asked the hostess, eying the sweet young tramp appreciatively.
"From beyond Schoharie," she answered quickly, remembering the name on the last cross-road signboard she had passed.
"H'm! Right smart way fer a little slip of a thing like you to come alone. You must 'a' started 'fore light."
"Soon after," laughed Dawn. She felt as if she were playing a game. Then, perceiving that the old lady was curious and would ask questions that she did not care to answer, she launched into a description of the morning sky and the early bird songs. The old woman watched her as if she were drinking in a picture that did her good.
"Bless me!" she said. "That sounds like poetry verses. How do you think it up?"
Then she whisked into the house again and came out with a paper of doughnuts.
"You might get hungry again 'fore you get to the village, and these doughnuts was extra good this time. Just take 'em an' eat 'em to pass the time as you go. If you feel hungry when you come along back, just stop in. I'll be glad to see your pretty face. It does a body good. Goin' back before sundown?"
"No," said Dawn; "I may stay some time. I'm not sure. But I thank you very much for your kind invitation, and I know I shall enjoy the doughnuts. I love doughnuts. We used to have them in school once a week in the winter, but only one apiece."
"So you've been to boardin'-school!"
The old woman would fain have detained her, but Dawn edged away toward the gate, thanking her sweetly all the while, and saying she must hasten, for the sun was getting high. She hurried down the road at last, pretending not to hear the old woman's question about who were her friends in Schoharie, and where she was going to visit in the village.
Her cheeks were bright with the excitement of the little episode, and she trilled a gay song as she fled on her unknown way. For the time being, all sadness was put away, and she was gay and free as a lark. Just a happy child.
A farmer's boy on a hay-wagon crawling along to the village stopped his whistling and stared at her; and the hired man on top of the load called out to him some remark about her that made the color grow brighter in her cheeks and her heart flutter wildly in her breast. She could not hear what words the man had spoken, but his tone had been contemptuous and familiar. She fairly flew by the team, and fled on down the road.
By noon the johnny-cake and milk were dreams of the past, and she was exceedingly hungry, yet she had not come to a place where she cared to ask for dinner. Every farm-house she came to seemed to have plenty of farmhands about, coming in to their dinner, and she dreaded their eyes upon her. So she sat down under a tree by the roadside and ate her fat, sugary doughnuts, rested a few minutes, and plodded on.
The afternoon was more wearisome. Her slippers hurt her feet, and she had to stop often to rest. About five o'clock she came to a neat-looking inn by the roadside, where a decent woman sat knitting by the door, and Dawn decided to sacrifice something from her small store of money and stop overnight.
The woman eyed her curiously when she asked for a room and supper. Not many pilgrims so young or so beautiful passed her way unattended. Dawn explained that she was on her way to another town, to look for something to do.
"I suppose you're expecting to teach school," said the woman disapprovingly. "They all do nowadays, when they better be home, helping their mothers make bread and pies."
"My mother is dead," said Dawn quietly, "and I must earn my own living now."
The woman was silenced, and gave the young traveller a pleasant little whitewashed room, where she slept soundly. But an idea had come to her. A teacher! Of course, she could be a teacher. Had she not led her classes, and always been successful in showing the girls at school how to do their sums? She would enjoy playing the part of Friend Ruth, and putting a class through its paces. It quite interested her to think how she would do it. But how would she get her school? Should she go to New York and try, or begin in a country one first?
This thought interested her all through the day, which was Saturday, and kept away the undertone of consciousness of a deep loss. But once, toward evening, she passed a shiny new carryall in which rode a young man and a girl, and a sharp pang shot through her heart as it brought back vividly to her memory the beautiful day which she and Charles had spent together. And then her mind went back to the first time she had seen him, that day when she was standing on the hilltop with, her small audience before her, and had looked up and seen the shining of his eyes. It came to her then that she had a certain right of possession in him, as if that day had given her to him and him to her in a bond that could never be broken, no matter how far they might be separated. Quiet joy settled down upon her with the thought that, whatever might come, whether she ever saw him again or not, she was his wife, and nobody, nobody could ever take the thought of it from her.
The sun was setting, and evening bells were ringing in the spire of a little white church, as she came into a small village nestled at the foot of a circle of hills. It reminded her that the next day was the Sabbath.
That day had no sweet association for her since her mother's death, but, though she had been only a little child, she could remember walking by her mother's side to church, with her little starched skirts swinging, and her mitted hands folded demurely over her pocket handkerchief, while the bells rang a cheery call to prayer. There had been no bells on the meeting-house to which the scholars of Friend Ruth's school were taken every First Day, and nothing about the service to remind her of the church where she had sat by her mother's side in the high-backed pew and heard the hymns lined out, trying to follow the singing of the congregation with her wee sweet voice; but now the bells harked back over the years and brought an aching memory of her almost forgotten little girlhood. A sudden longing to go to church as she used to do came over her, and she decided to find a place in the village to stay over Sunday and go to service in the little white-spired church. Besides, it was against the law in those days for any one to travel unnecessarily on the Sabbath day. Dawn never thought of doing so, any more than she would have contemplated the possibility of stealing.
It chanced that she arrived at the village tavern about the same time as the stage-coach from the opposite direction, and no one noticed that she had not come on the stage, for there were a number of travellers who stopped off here for the Sabbath. Seeing them descending from the coach, she went in haste to the landlady and begged that she might have a tiny room to herself. She was a little frightened at the thought of paying a whole dollar out of her small hoard for the lodging and her meals until after breakfast Monday morning, but she shut her eyes to the thought of it and took the room. It was only a tiny one over a shed that was given her, but everything was clean and sweet, and the supper smells came richly up through the open window to her hungry senses. On the whole, she was quite content when she lay down to rest in her own little room that night and dreamed of church-bells, and weddings, and sweet fields of clover and new-mown hay.
CHAPTER XVIII
The next morning the roosters crowing under her window awakened her, and for the moment she thought she was back in school, with the barn-yard not far away; but other and unfamiliar sounds and odors brought her back to realities, and she remembered she was a lone traveller putting up at an inn.
She lay still for some time, thinking over the strangeness of it all, and the tragic happenings of the last few days. The thought of Charles brought tears to her eyes. The dearness and loss of him came over her as it had not had time to do while she was hurrying on her way. But this morning, for the first time, she felt that she was far from every one who knew her, and hidden securely so that she could never be found, and that she might look her life in the face and know what it all meant. It was inevitable that in reviewing her life the first and largest part of all should be Charles and her brief but sweet acquaintance with him. That she was his wife thrilled her with unspeakable joy. The fact that she had deliberately renounced him took away to some extent the sting of the manner in which she had been married.
As she thought it all over, she realized that the only real shame in the whole affair was that she had been about to marry Harrington Winthrop when her heart was full of fear and hatred for him. She seemed to see many things in a new light. In fact, the child had become a woman in the space of a few days, and she understood life better, though it was still one vast perplexity.
One thing remained of all the past, and that was the memory of the love of Charles. Even the remembrance of her dear mother was dimmed by it. It seemed to be the one eternal fact which stood out clearly, and in the light of which she must hereafter live. That he had been generous and kind enough to marry her for the sake of relieving her from humiliation, as his mother had intimated, only made Dawn love him the more. But because of the generosity of that act, she must never trouble him again. She had renounced him. It was the least she could do for him, under the circumstances, in return for his great kindness. But whatever happened, she must be true to his memory, and be such that he would always be proud of her if he should chance ever to hear of her, though she meant to take care that he did not.
If she had been a little older and wiser, if she had understood the ways of the world better, she would not have been so sure that she was taking the most direct way to reward Charles for his kindness to her. But she did not understand, and so was sincere and earnest in her mistaken way of being loyal to him. One thing, however, made her glad. She felt that no matter how far apart they might be during the rest of their lives, they had understood each other, and their souls had met in a deep, sweet joy. As she thought of the moment before supper at his home, when he had held her in that close embrace, and laid his face upon hers and kissed her, the sweetness and pain of it were too much for her, and with a sharp cry she hid her face in her pillow and wept bitterly.
It never occurred to her, poor little pilgrim, that he might be grieving just as deeply over her absence and the mystery of her whereabouts as was she for him, or she would have flown to him in spite of all mothers-in-law, and made him glad.
The tempest of her grief swept over her like a summer storm, and was gone. At her age she could not grieve long over what had been hers so briefly that it had scarcely become tangible. But as it had been the dearest happening of her life, and the only bright thing in her girlhood, it took the form of a mount of vision from which ever after she was to draw her inspiration for the doing of the monotonous tasks of life.
She arose and washed away the marks of the tears, and dressed herself carefully in her green silk for church, arranging her hair demurely on the top of her head, with the curls as little in evidence as possible. She wished to look old and dignified, as befitted a person travelling by herself, and looking for a chance to teach school.
The village was a pretty one, and as she walked down the street to the church her heart went out to it. As she sat in the tall pew where the beadle placed her, she glanced shyly around at the people who came in, and wished she might stop here and get something to do. Yet her heart shrank from any attempt to speak to them or beg their help.
A lady came in leading a little girl by the hand, a sweet-faced child with a chubby face, and ringlets in clusters on either cheek, held there by her fine white, dunstable straw bonnet, with its moss-rosebuds and face-ruche of soft lace. After they were seated, across the aisle, the little girl leaned over her mother and stared at Dawn, then smiled shyly, and the young wanderer felt that she had one friend in this strange place.
A sudden loneliness gripped her heart, and she wished she were a little girl again, sitting by her mother's side. How many, many times she had wished that the last few months! The thought made her heart ache, it was so old a hurt. She felt the smart of tears that wanted to swim out and blind her vision, but she straightened up and tried to look dignified, remembering that she was a woman now—a married woman. She wondered, would it be wrong to pretend, as she used to do at school sometimes? She wanted to pretend that Charles sat by her side, they two going to their first church service together. She decided there would be no harm in that, and moved a little nearer the corner to make room for her dear companion. It gave her a happy sense of not being alone, and she glanced up now and then as if he were there and she were watching him proudly. It was not hard to imagine him. She was good at such things. It thrilled her to think how his arm would be close to hers, his sleeve touching her hand, perhaps, as he held the hymn-book for her to sing with him. And to think that if only her marriage had been like others, she would in all probability have been singing beside him in his home church at this very minute! The thought of it almost brought the tears.
There were no hymn-books in the little village church, but the minister lined the hymn out, and Dawn stood up to sing with the rest, her clear voice lifting the tune till people near her turned to look at the sweet face. She tried to think that Charles was singing by her side, but when they came to the stanza:
When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.
When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.
When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,
But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.
it was almost too much for her, and she had to wink hard to keep back the tears, for it came over her that she could not hope to meet Charles again, but must go on with the being asunder always.
The minister had gray hair and a kindly face. He preached about comfort, and Dawn felt as if it were meant for her. As she listened, an idea came to her. She would go to the minister and ask him to help her find a school. Ministers knew about such things.
She went to the afternoon service also, and after it was over two or three women shook hands with her, looked curiously, admiringly at her rich silk gown, and asked her if she were a stranger.
She smiled and nodded shyly. Then the minister came and shook hands with her, and brought his tired-looking wife to speak to her. She watched them go across the churchyard together, and up the steps of the old parsonage. The minister seemed tired, too, but there was sympathy between the two that seemed to rest them both when they looked at each other and smiled. It touched the girl-wife. Here were two who had walked together, yet who seemed to be agreed, and to be happy in each other's company. She felt instinctively, from the minister's face, that he would not have sent his wife away from his home, no matter what she had done. He would not have thought she had done anything wrong in the first place. It came to Dawn that perhaps it had been her father's quick temper and hasty judgment that had made all the trouble for her mother. She remembered lately an unutterably sad expression about his eyes. Perhaps he was feeling sorry about it, and ashamed. It made the girl have a tenderer feeling for the father she had never really loved. She pitied him that he must live with her step-mother. She had not as yet connected Mrs. Van Rensselaer with her own present predicament. Her main sensations were dislike for her father's second wife, and thankfulness that she was out of her jurisdiction. It remained for deeper reflection to tell Dawn just how much her step-mother was to blame for her having been married to one man, supposing all the time that he was another.
The next morning quite early, Dawn attired herself in her little gray frock and tied her bonnet neatly, then, leaving her bundle in her room, ready to move in case her mission failed, she presented herself at the parsonage and asked to see the minister.
She was shown into the study, where the good man sat in a big hair-cloth chair by the open window, reading.
He received her kindly and gave her a chair.
"I've come to gee whether you can help me to find something to do," she began shyly. "My mother is dead, and I must earn my own living. I have relatives to whom I should be a burden, and I have come away so that they will not be troubled with me."
She had thought out during the night watches just what to say.
The minister looked at her keenly and kindly through his spectacles. Long experience had made him a good judge of character. He saw nothing but guileless innocence in the sweet young face.
"What is your name?" he asked, by way of preliminary.
Dawn's face flushed slightly, but she had anticipated this question.
"I should like to be called Mary Montgomery," she said shyly. "It is not my real name, but my relatives might be mortified if they should hear of my being at work. They are very proud, and would not like to have their name mixed up with one who works. Besides, if they should hear of my being here this way, they would think that they must come after me and take care of me, and I don't wish them to. I want to be independent."
She gave the minister a most engaging smile, which put a well rounded period to her plea.
"How do I know that you have not run away?" he asked her, half smiling himself.
"Oh, I have run away," answered Dawn frankly. "I knew they would try to keep me if I told them, but I left word I had gone, and they will not worry. They do not love me. They wanted me to stay only because they felt it a duty to care for me, and they will be greatly relieved to be rid of me without any trouble. That is why I came. You see, they told me as much, and it was very uncomfortable. You would not want to stay where you knew you were in the way, would you?"
Dawn looked into the old minister's eyes with her own wide, lovely ones, and won his heart. She reminded him of his little girl who had died.
"I suppose not," he said in a half amused tone. "But don't you think it would be better for you to confide in me? Just tell me your real name, and where you come from, and all about it, and then I can help you better. I shall be able to recommend you, you know."
"Thank you, no," said Dawn decidedly, getting up as if that ended the matter. "If I told you that, and then you were asked if I were here, you would have to say yes. Then, too, if you knew, you might think it was your duty to let my friends know where I am. Now you have no responsibility about it at all, don't you see? But I don't want to make you any trouble. If you don't know of some work I might do here, I will go elsewhere. I can surely find something to do without telling my real name. I know I am doing right. You were so kind when you spoke to me yesterday, that I thought I would come and ask though I had intended going on this morning."
"Wait," said the minister. "Sit down. What do you want to do? What kind of work are you fitted for?"
"I have been educated at a good school," said Dawn, sitting down and putting on a quaint little business-like air which made the minister smile.
"Did you ever teach school?" There was much hesitation in the minister's voice. He was not altogether sure he was doing right to suggest the idea, she was such a child in looks.
"No, but I could," replied Dawn confidently. "And, oh, I should like it! It is just what I want. I love to show people how to do things, and make them learn correctly. I used to help the girls at school." There was great eagerness in her face. The minister thought how lovely she was, and again that fleeting likeness to his dead child gripped his heart.
"You are very young," he mused, watching the changing expression on her face, and thinking that his child would have been about this girl's age.
"I am almost seventeen," said Dawn, drawing herself up gravely.
"Our village schoolmaster left very suddenly last week, to go to his invalid mother's bedside, and it may be some months before his return. Indeed, it is possible that he will not come back at all. He intimated as much before he left. We have not had opportunity as yet to find another teacher, and the school has been dismissed for a few days until we can look about for a substitute."
"Oh, will you let me try?" Dawn sat on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped, her lovely eyes pleading eagerly.
"But some of the scholars are larger than you are."
"That will not matter," responded Dawn, undaunted. "I could always make the girls at school do what I wanted."
"There are some big boys who might make you a good deal of trouble," went on the minister. "Our school has the name of being a hard one to discipline. We have always had a man at its head."
"I am not afraid," said Dawn, fire in her eyes. "I should like to try, if you will let me. You cannot tell whether I can do it unless you let me try."
"That is true," agreed the minister gravely. "I suppose there would be no harm in your trying. I could talk with the trustees about it, though the matter has been practically left to me."
"Oh, then, please,please, try me! I am sure I can do it," Dawn pleaded, and the look of his dead child's eyes in her face conquered the minister's scruples.
"Very well, I will try you," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "I will see the trustees and have the notices put up at once. School will open to-morrow morning. But I warn you it will be no easy task. I feel that it will be an extremely doubtful experiment."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Dawn, her eyes bright with anticipation. "I am not afraid, and I shall do my best. I am sure I can teach a school."
"Poor child!" thought the minister. "Am I doing right to send her into such a trial?"
Aloud, he only said:
"You will receive sixteen dollars a month, and will board around, Miss Montgomery."
Dawn looked up at the new name she had chosen, and saw a twinkle in his eye. She smiled in recognition of his acceptance of it.
"Where are you stopping?" he asked.
"I am at the Golden Swan," she answered. "I can stay there a little while yet. I have a little money, though it will not last many weeks."
She wrinkled her sweet face into dimples and smiled at him, as if having no money were a matter of little consequence.
He admired her courage, and, bending upon her a look of benediction, said kindly:
"We will arrange the matter of boarding as soon as possible. I will see Mrs. Gillette, the wife of the proprietor of the Golden Swan. They have a daughter in school, and possibly their two boys will attend also, though sometimes at this time of year they are both out working on the farm. But the Gillettes always take the teacher for their share of the term."
Dawn went smiling down the parsonage path. It seemed to her the larkspurs had grown bluer and the verbenas pinker since she came up a few minutes before, and her feet fairly danced down the street, she was so happy over her good fortune. It was like a beautiful story, the way it was turning out. She had no apprehensions about her ability to handle the village school, for she had had no experience of what bad boys could be; so there was nothing to cloud her bright day, save now and then a brief pang of longing for Charles. For the most part, her mind was too much filled with anticipation of the morrow to have room for thoughts of the past. She went to the Golden Swan, and told Mrs. Gillette that she was to remain there for a few days at least, then she found the village store and made a few simple purchases, among them needles, thread, and a thimble. Then she chose material for an apron, and hurried home to make it. The school-teachers she had known had always worn aprons. They were a badge of office. But the apron she made was not like Friend Ruth's. It was small and coquettish, and edged with a tiny ruffle.
Dawn knew how to sew beautifully, for that had been one of the accomplishments Friend Ruth required of all her pupils. With a pair of borrowed scissors, the young girl fashioned the garment, and cut the tiny ruffles, rolling the hems as she had been taught to do, and scratching the gathers scientifically. By night she had a dainty little apron ready to wear to school. It was a frivolous bit of a thing, but it filled her with delight, for it was such an apron as she had always desired, but had not been allowed to have while in school. Simplicity held sway where Friend Ruth ruled.
At the supper table it was whispered around that a new school-teacher had come to town. There were notices up at the corners and all the cross-roads. School was to "take up" on the morrow. Some of the people at the table looked suspiciously at the pretty young stranger sitting demurely by herself at the end of the table, and wondered if she were the new teacher, but others said no, she was entirely too young.
After supper Dawn went to the big book wherein were registered the names of the guests, and wrote down "Mary Montgomery" in a clear, round hand. Mr. Gillette watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye. As he saw her about to turn away, he said gruffly:
"Put down the place. We like to know where our folks belongs."
"Oh!" said Dawn, a pink flush stealing into her cheek. What should she put? Then, quick as a flash, she thought, "I have adopted a name—why should I not adopt a home, too? I am on my way to New York. If I do not remain here, I shall go there—if I can get there. I will choose New York for my home. It is a large place, and no one will expect me to know every one there. Besides, it will also stand for New York State."
So, without another word, she wrote "New York" beside her name. She might as well have written "Heaven," for it stood to her as a kind of final destination, far away and pleasant, the only place now that she could look to for a real home.
"You ain't the new schoolmarm, be you?" inquired the worthy proprietor of the Golden Swan cautiously.
"Why, yes," said Dawn, happily conscious, and laughing merrily to think of the word "schoolmarm" as applied to her who but yesterday was a scholar.
"Now, you don't say!" said the proprietor, settling back in his chair and putting his feet on the office table in front of him, while he shoved up his spectacles to get a better view of her. "Some said as how you was, but I couldn't think it. You look so young."
"Oh, I'm quite old," said Dawn anxiously. "I'm far older than I look." And she hurried away, lest she should be questioned further.
It was soon noised abroad that the new teacher was stopping at the Golden Swan, and many a villager dropped in to have a look at her. But she was nowhere in evidence. Up in the little whitewashed chamber, with her candle lighted and the shades drawn, she was standing before her tiny looking-glass, arrayed in her new, beruffled apron, and trying to look grave and dignified, and as much like Friend Ruth as possible.
If Charles could have seen her all absorbed, his heart would have been sadly cast down to see how little she seemed to miss him. But later, when she had put out her candle and crept into her bed, she sobbed a long time into her pillow with loneliness and excitement.